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Chet is a real piece of crap
I was pretty lucky. I got a decent part-time job right out of high school, at a discount car mall in the suburbs. I know it doesn't sound great, but the owner, Mr. Hawkes, is a friend of my dad's. My mom died when I was 9, and Mr. Hawkes helped us get through the loss. He basically gave my dad a car. He managed to get me a pretty sweet night position detailing and vacuuming out the trade-in's, and moving cars into different displays around the lot. It's a big lot. So much so that the sales people ride around in golf-carts. Some stay late, after hours, and re-arrange the cars themselves. John Jacobs jokes that he has a better taste for aesthetics than me. He's probably right. At night, a lot of "test driving" occurs. Last year, our receptionist, Martha, had her huge bright yellow Hummer repossessed (thank god, she always double parked that ugly shitbox ), and Mr. Hawkes let her "test drive" a Charger for three months. Mr. Hawkes doesn't really give a shit; he'll let his top earners take home pretty much any car after hours, as long as they bring it back before the lot opens and don't do any damage to it. In the four years that I've worked at the dealership, I never really had a problem. Until Chet came along. He was hired about three months ago. I hated him from the very beginning. He was a small, pale, skinny man with a goatee. He wore pants that were way to tight, always had his top button loose and looked like he rubbed a greasy slice of pizza in his hair before he came to work. He drank about four cans of Monster Energy a day. For lunch, he had three pop-tarts and a McDouble, and he immediately took advantage of whatever car he wanted to take home. A few weeks in, he ran the dealership. Mr. Hawkes, god love him, is a sucker for flattery, and Chet laid it on thick. Pretty much every word that came out of his mouth was a complement, to all the sales-people, service staff, and management. Unless he was talking to me. Or any woman. Chet was a fucking pervert. He constantly stared at every woman in our office, and I caught him trying to look underneath the woman restroom doors. He said he dropped his pen. I didn't believe him. He didn't actually make many sales, but talked himself up, and put others down. Not in an obvious way, but in a underhanded "you're doing better this week!" Or "Good job selling that car. I've sold three this week." A few weeks into his regime, Chet realized that I wasn't falling for his charade. I was the only one who would call him out on his disgusting comments. Now, in hindsight, I know what he was trying to do; test the boundaries. See what he could get away with. Was Jimmy, the service manager, going to let him get away with saying that a customer's daughter looked "like a piece?" Yep. Was Fred, the head of sales, going to let him make jokes about Martha's cleavage? Yep. It went on and on. I tried to make a paper trail with H.R, reporting him anonymously every time he said something. But nothing ever came of it, and after the first few times, I swear Chet knew. He stopped trying to butter me up. He'd report me for being late, talk shit about me to all of the salespeople, and tried to frame me for stealing parts from the service department. (He tried to say I stole a timing belt. Who steals a timing belt?) Luckily, Mr. Hawkes liked me as much as he liked Chet. I brought Chet's shit to his attention constantly. But Hawkes always laughed it off. One Saturday, the undercover detectives showed up. On weekends, I'd show up to the dealership around 3:30 in the afternoon and start vacuuming out the new arrivals. I showed one Saturday, and got to work. I was about an hour into my shift. I was listening to some podcasts, and felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around, wielding the vacuum hose like it was somehow a weapon. A man in a navy blue suit with a holstered gun on his side was standing in front of me. I shouted "sorry" over the roar of the vacuum and shut it off. "Hey, sorry to freak you out, kid," the man said. He had a deep, raspy voice, with a short, stubbly black beard. "Heh, sorry to...uh..vacuum you," I said, immediately swallowed by my absolute social ineptitude. The cop, thankfully, ignored me. "My name's Detective Howard, Auburn PD. Just wanted to ask you a few questions." "About what?" I asked. "We're looking for a guy named Greg Nelson. Do you know him?" "Nope," I replied. "Why?" The cop looked to his unmarked car, parked behind the car I was cleaning. I glanced over there as well. Another plains-clothed officer was in the front seat, window's down, eating a sandwich. He waved. I did a half wave back at him. "It might help if I showed you a picture of him," Detective Howard said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. I opened it. It was a picture of Chet. A mugshot. "Wait a minute," I said. "I know this guy...he's a salesman at the dealership." Detective Howard seemed to light up. He turned around to his partner, who put his half eaten sandwich on the dash-board and came hurrying over. "Look, I'm not going to lie to you, kid. Greg...Chet, whatever he's calling himself now, is a real piece of shit," said Howard. Looking back, I realize it was kind of fucked up, but I was excited. I was the only person who ever thought Chet was a scumbag, and two undercover cops we're telling me I was right. I wanted to bury him, tell them everything, see Chet hauled away in handcuffs on Monday. So I answered all their questions. Told them when Chet first started working, what I knew about him outside of work (which was nothing), and gave them a detailed account of all of his disgusting escapades. I lead them to the office, to his desk, and they told me to sit tight. I made a coffee in the break-room, and started to scroll through Reddit. Slowly, more and more officers flowed in. I looked out in the parking-lot; a van with "Computer Crimes" on the side. I looked over at Chet's desk; officers wearing gloves, hovering over his computer, staring intently. Eventually, after about an hour, things started to calm down. They took his computer into the van, and after a few minutes, Detective Howard came into the break-room. "Thanks for your help. We're all good now. Just between you and me...you won't be seeing Chet around on Monday. Have a good night, kid." The cops rolled out. I decided to get back to work. It was dark. But before I did, I googled Greg Nelson. The only thing I knew about Chet was that he was from Burlington, Vermont. Greg--Chet's mugshot on the sex offender registry. Lifetime. Gross Sexual Assault, a dozen counts of possession of...I couldn't finish. My pride at bringing Chet down faded into a confused slog of disgust and horror. I thought he was pulling some kind of scam, some kind of fraud. Embezzlement. Not this. My fists tightened. Chet was a real fucking piece of shit. I tried to calm down. I put my podcast back in and hopped in a car that need to be move to service. I turned the car on. The headlights flashed on. A person, raising his arm. I tried to throw it in reverse. I accelerated backward for half a second before I heard what sounded like a firecracker lit off three inches from my face. Glass splintered. A stinging, like getting hit in the gut with a rock. I felt wetness; I glanced down at my stomach. My shirt soaked with blood. It was hard to breath. The pain, throbbing and hot and flushed, started to set in as the door flung open. Chet, slobbering, staggering where he stood, reeking of booze, a slippery smile. "You're not dead. Good." I blacked out. I woke up, bandaged, throbbing, barely able to breathe. My shirt was off; some half-assed bandage, soaked with blood. I was in a dark room, wooden floors, looked like a deck. I could see out a window. We were at treeline. I almost laughed. I was going to fucking die in a tree-house. Chet lit a lamp. He brought it over to me and set it down on the wood floor. "How you feeling?" he asked, smiling. "Chet, I'm...gunna...die..." "Yeah, and I don't give a shit. I wanted you to see something." He stepped into the darkness. He threw a photo album onto the floor. He stepped back into the light. "This is where I come to be myself. We're deep in the woods, about five miles following an old railroad and another two into the deep woods. You're gunna die out here, Charlie. But I wanted to show you something." He pulled me up into a sitting position. I screamed; it felt like he was tearing at my insides. "Shut up," he told me, still smiling. He flipped open the book. He went through the album, page by page. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness. I'd wake up to a new page. Each time I woke up, I wanted to die. Fever dreams; Chet owned me, even in my sleep. He was still showing me pictures, things I never wanted to see. At one point, I closed my eyes, shut them, tears of pain and disgust streaming. He punched my gut, my wound. I sprang to live. He brought the image up to my face. He made sure I saw. After he was done, he'd get a new album. We went through seven. All victims he brought here. To this tree house. But in some of the photos, it wasn't him. The last time I came to, it must have been morning. I saw the inside of the tree-house. The wall was lined with pictures, Polaroids. Images that still fucking haunt me. The sound of a helicopter. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. Chet, who was sleeping on a cot in the corner, woke up, peaked out the window, and smiled. "I'm tired of runnin', Charlie. I want you to remember this place. I...heard what the cops said. I'm a real piece of shit, ain't I?"Before Chet shot himself in front of me, he lit half of the tree house on fire. The pictures, the albums...gone. BI crawled to the door. A cop on a helicopter lifted me out of the tree-house before it collapsed and rushed me to Boston. I spent about a month in critical condition, about a year in intensive therapy. I won't ever walk again. But I don't give a shit about that. Every time I close my eyes, I see what Chet showed me. I can't open a book without having a panic attack, can't have my picture taken. My second to last day at the hospital, I met with my therapist. She asked me if I was ready, if I thought I could try and live through the trauma, after all that Chet did to me. I said yeah. And it was true. I could get over Chet. He was one sick fuck. But deep in my subconscious, the thing that tortured me wasn't even Chet. It was the other faces I saw. Chet isn't the only piece of shit working at the dealership. Mr. Hawkes. John. My dad. I'm a few days out of the hospital, and I just bought a gun. Mr. Hawkes has me on the schedule tomorrow. They're going to have a party to welcome me back. Dad will be there. Category:Fanfic Category:Creepypasta